


Chasing Cars

by el3anorrigby



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Some Humor, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 21:57:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6168133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/pseuds/el3anorrigby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Waverly, a rich art collector who owns many galleries all over England, asks Napoleon, his trusted art thief, to retrieve an art piece for him but Napoleon runs into trouble during the job in the form of a tall Russian. </p><p> <br/>The one where they are all thieves (sort of), and Gaby works for Waverly as his personal assistant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chasing Cars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lethalin (Aussems)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussems/gifts).



Napoleon crouches behind a line of bushes and promptly takes out his cellphone from inside his jacket. He scrolls through his text messages, skipping the unimportant ones, opens the one he had received from Gaby.

_Note that you have two hours tops to do the job. Waverly says the Vinciguerras would be back from their gala in the city by midnight. Good luck._

Glancing at his watch to check on the time, Napoleon then stuffs his cellphone back into his jacket after he has made sure it is switched to silent mode. He smooths his jacket, zips it close right up to his neck, and then pulls down the baseball cap he is wearing low over his head. In his haste to get to the Vinciguerra mansion, Napoleon had left his usual beanie and the cap was the only thing available in his car that he could use to mask his face. He is almost certain the place would be laden with security cameras and he needs to be extra careful it does not get a glimpse of him in action. He puts on his gloves and once he is confident the coast is clear, he makes a beeline towards the mansion.

Breaking into Al Vinciguerra’s house is a bad idea but Napoleon still owes Waverly a favour and he has not had a proper chance to think of a better one. Now, as he slowly moves across the dimly lit halls of the house in the middle of the night, he starts to question himself. He is cut out for this work since he is a former thief, but after being out of the game for a couple of years Napoleon feels he should have gotten reacquainted with his skills first before jumping straight into action. But Waverly had been convincing enough, telling him the job would be easy, way too easy for a person of Napoleon’s skill and experience.

“Just one more steal for me, Solo. That’s all I need,” the elderly Englishman had asked him when they had met just a week earlier in a quaint coffee shop nearby his apartment. “I’ve sent you the details of the painting and the layout of the Vinciguerra’s mansion for you to study at your email. And this favour I ask of you is nothing as compared to your previous achievements.”

Napoleon had indeed started out young as an art thief and Alexander Waverly had been one of his victims. A well known English art collector living in the heart of London, Waverly owns a few art galleries all over the country and his fame and fortune had caught the eyes of his rivals and one, in particular, had engaged Napoleon’s services to steal from the Englishman. Unfortunately, Napoleon had been caught while trying to escape Waverly’s art gallery but because he had been so taken with Napoleon’s skill, somehow managing to break into his gallery which was equipped with a highly touted security system, Waverly had offered Napoleon to work for him instead, something which Napoleon had not been able to refuse. People say it takes a thief to catch one and that episode with Waverly made Napoleon realise the gentleman had been dealing with forged and stolen paintings as well.

“Why do you need this Rembrandt piece anyway?” Napoleon had asked Waverly through the phone as he studied the details of the painting Waverly had sent him. He had checked his email once he had gotten home, realised what Waverly had wanted was actually a fake piece.

“It’s not even an original?”

“It’s not even a Rembrandt piece. I knew what it was when I’d acquired it from an art dealer and I’d sold it anyway to Al Vinciguerra, telling him it’s a Rembrandt. And since his knowledge in art is practically zero, he’d bought it without hesitation. And Al, he’s not the type that’s going to notice a piece of art missing in his mansion. So I want you to get it for me.”

“But you still haven’t answered me, why do you need it?”

“Let’s just say there’s something written on the back of the painting that holds some important information that I need to get my hands on.”

“And you’d just found out about this?”

“The details on that, I’d rather keep it to myself, Solo.”

“But wouldn’t this whole thing lead Vinciguerra to you?”

“Let me worry about that. Now are you going to help me, or are you not? The painting is only twelve inches square, fairly easy for you to smuggle out I would think. And if you do this I promise you won’t have to steal again after this. I’ll help you start afresh, Solo.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You don’t want to be implicated with dozens of missing pieces of art now, do you?”

“I need to sleep on this,” was all Napoleon had replied Waverly in the end.

For all the time Napoleon had worked for Waverly, the man had never really made good on his threats. Waverly always tried to portray his image as intimidating, but despite his crooked ways, he really was a nice person. In the end, Napoleon had returned Waverly’s call and agreed to help the man, because he himself had missed the thrill of the job, the adrenaline rush of breaking an entry and the satisfaction he would get coming away with his intended prize.

Now, as he creeps about in Al Vinciguerra’s house, which is rather deserted except for the millionaire’s maids and butlers downstairs in the kitchen, Napoleon hopes to get the painting Waverly wants and make his getaway as soon as possible without getting caught.

Making his way on the top floor of the mansion, he searches an empty guest room, a room which he thinks is the Vinciguerra’s library, a game room, and then when he makes it across a very large hall, Napoleon suddenly thinks he might never find the said painting. The mansion is a freaking maze, and time is creeping up on him.

Using his photographic memory to recall the layout of the top floor, he starts to open doors to bedrooms, one after another until he reaches one which looked like a woman’s room, perhaps belonging to Al Vinciguerra’s daughter, Victoria, because it is filled with silky pretty things tossed on the bed and perfume scenting the air. The room exactly fits the description of a woman the Italian man’s daughter would be. Napoleon had seen her picture and she does look gorgeous, the kind of woman Napoleon would probably charm if the act could get her to talk and tell him where her father keeps his precious art collection.

As he was rummaging through the woman’s belongings with the aid of his small flashlight, clearly certain the room is Victoria Vinciguerra’s as he finds a couple of her photos and belongings indicating the room to be hers, Napoleon suddenly hears voices and footsteps coming from the corridor outside the room. He glances at his watch. He has only been in the house for forty-five minutes. Could the Vinciguerras be home early? Or do those voices belong to the maids roaming about the corridors of the house? Seconds later the voices dissipated and realising he has to move things quicker, Napoleon soon starts to pick up his speed, checking everywhere that he possibly could inside the room. Then he sees the panelled closet doors along one wall.

Opening the first door, he shoves the hung clothes apart to check if the painting could be hidden behind it but finds nothing. When he opens the second door, Napoleon almost falls back, reeling in surprise.

There is a man in the closet, a fucking tall man dressed in black with a flat cap on and Napoleon, so surprised at the sight, drops his flashlight in an instant and turns to run but before he knows anything, a hand is slapped across his mouth from behind and the man yanks him behind against his strong hold. With force, Napoleon kicks back and connected with his attacker’s shin, and the man cursed and lost his balance, before falling back on the carpeted floor. Thinking he had done enough to escape, Napoleon tries to make a run for the window but the man manages to tug at one of his ankles, making him tumble as well. He then drags Napoleon back roughly.

“Damn, this guy’s heavy,” Napoleon thinks, panics, because the man is now straddling his back, one hand on Napoleon’s mouth again, the other gripping both of his wrists tight behind his back.

“Do not make noise,” he threatens in Napoleon’s ear and Napoleon catches that foreign accent, definitely not American or English. He cannot protest even if he wants to because the man’s large hand is preventing him from saying anything. He wants to struggle but he does not think it would be a good idea.

“Do not panic.”

Napoleon really needs to pry the man’s hand away because he is struggling to breathe at the moment.

“I will not hurt you, I am here to get something,” the man says again and Napoleon immediately recognises the accent as Russian.

The man has a grip like vice and Napoleon’s lungs starts to size up as his hand presses harder against his mouth. His muscles start to clench and the familiar feeling of panic, which he has not felt for a long time, starts to overwhelm him.

“If I let my hand go, you will not do anything stupid, you will not make noise,” the man says, tries to bargain, but Napoleon feels like suffocating as his treacherous lungs start to betray him. Napoleon knows he cannot pass out now, not like this, not while doing something he is supposedly good at, because that would be embarrassing, so doing the only thing he could possibly think of at that moment, Napoleon bites the man’s hand, hard.

At the contact of teeth and flesh, the man jerks his hand away, lets go of Napoleon’s wrists but using his sheer weight on him, he forces Napoleon down hard against the floor. Napoleon assumes the man is currently trying his best to swallow a pained cry from escaping his mouth when he hears a tiny whine followed by an angry grunt in his ear.

“Idiot!” he mutters angrily as he rubbed at the sting of the bite on his hand on Napoleon’s shoulder. “I am not going to kill you!”

“Well, you almost did!” Napoleon hisses back. “And will you get off me?”

“Not yet.”

The man on top of him is seriously getting on his nerves but then Napoleon figures, he wants to get out of the situation unscathed, so he resists the urge to deck his assailant. “How long are we going to stay like this?” he asks after a second or two. “You’re getting mighty comfortable on top of me, I must say. I need you to get off.”

“Shut up.”

Knowing he needs to try another approach to try and win his losing argument, Napoleon stays under the man, braced on one hand, and then slowly turns his head. The bill of the baseball cap he is wearing shields his face from his assailant in the dark. Then, when he tries to fumble for something in the pocket of his jacket, he hears a growl, his wrists are caught again and the man leans over him.

“I said do not do anything stupid!”

“I’m not. Just let me up, will you? I won’t make a sound. You know I could have if I’d wanted to already,” Napoleon reasons.

Somehow, something he had said had managed to get into the man’s head and he releases Napoleon from his grip and starts to get off him. Napoleon takes the opportunity to quickly stand on his feet. He pushes himself up from the floor, a blur in the darkness of the room, as he knocks the man back but then he catches the sleeves of Napoleon’s arm as he stands on his feet.

“Wait,” he whispers. “I cannot let you go yet.”

“Hmm, I don’t really care because truthfully, that’s not really my problem,” Napoleon whispers back, the annoyance in his voice apparent as he tries to tug back his arm from the man’s hold. “You see, I really need to get out of here.”

“No,” the man answers him firmly. He pulls Napoleon closer and catches a whiff of his cologne, or whatever it was Napoleon’s using. It is a shame he could not really catch a glimpse of the man, whose voice and manner is starting to intrigue him. “I cannot let you go. Too dangerous. You will inform the authorities on me, I cannot let you do this.”

Napoleon shakes his head.

“Look, I don’t know who you are, what you came here for, and seriously, I don’t really care. In fact, I can’t even tell anyone on you because I don’t even know how you look like! I didn’t get a good look at your face, I swear. That stupid hat on your head is obscuring your face.”

“You lie,” the stranger growls.

Napoleon sighs, throws his hands up in frustration. “I’m not. Trust me.”

The man contemplates for a second or two and then relents.

“Okay.”

Just when Napoleon thinks he is making headway, the man drags him over to the window and pulls back the drapes to let the street light in, himself keeping to the shadow so Napoleon would not be able to clearly see him.

“Wait, what are you doing?” Napoleon asks as he pulls the drapes close again. “Are you crazy? Somebody might notice.”

At the same time, he tries to jerk his arm away from the man and this time, he lets Napoleon go.

“You are a thief,” the man says in an accusing tone, his voice low and dangerous. Napoleon tries the best he could to make the man out in the dark but to no avail. All he knows is the stranger has a good few inches on him and it totally unnerves him. He wants to make a grab for his flashlight on the floor but it is too far out of his reach.

“I am guessing you are as well,” Napoleon then addresses the man.

The stranger merely snorts. “Why are you here?”

“This isn’t a game,” Napoleon answers. He tries to pull the man into the light that is filtering through the little gap between the drapes but he stands his ground, pushes Napoleon back although he is having the same problem as Napoleon, unable to properly look at the man who is currently holding him back from escaping the mansion.

“Tell me why you are here,” he asks Napoleon again but Napoleon is not going to let some stranger know his intentions for being there. And knowing he has precious little time left, he tries to bargain again with the man.

“Look, I’m trying to steal something from this very rich man and you have conveniently foiled my plans. As for you, I don’t really want to know why you’re here, so why don’t we just go our separate ways and forget this whole episode ever happened.”

When the man says nothing, Napoleon starts to move away but unbelievably, the man catches him around his shoulders and pulls him back against his chest. “Do not make me regret letting you go. Because if you ever let anyone know about this, I will kill you.”

Hearing that, Napoleon smirks. “You don’t really know how I look like, how the hell are you going to do that now? If it ever comes to that?”

“I have my ways, American.”

“So you’re Russian?”

Napoleon’s voice is causing a stirring alarm in the Russian’s chest. “Do not make me try and find you.”

“Is this a threat?” Napoleon goads him, knowing that he should not but he just could not help himself.

“If you want it to be, I will come and find you. So you think about it properly.”

“Not trying to, comrade,” Napoleon retorted and that somewhat angers the tall Russian.

“This is twenty-first century. Do not call me that like I’m some communist.”

Napoleon realises he has struck a bad nerve in the man. “Okay, you clearly got a temper on you.”

Suddenly, an idea comes into Napoleon’s head. Maybe he could get the Russian thief to help him instead of them being stuck in that room with no leeway in their progress.

“Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you let me go and I’ll help you find whatever it is you’re trying to find and you help me in return.”

He does not wait for the Russian to say anything, simply backs him through Victoria Vinciguerra’s clothes and up against the wall, right into the closet again and Napoleon’s deep voice is somehow setting a nice low hum in his temple.

“You want to help me? But I do not need your help.”

 _Damn_ , Napoleon thought his great idea is going to be good enough to let him escape the man’s clutches but then what the man says next intrigues him. “But what is it that you want me to do to help you?”

“There is a small Rembrandt painting,” Napoleon starts without thinking. “A replica oil painting of winter landscape, not the real thing, twelve inch square. I need to find it and it is somewhere in this house which I can’t find and…”

“And you want me to help you steal it.”

The Russian exhales, his breath hot on Napoleon’s cheek and he wonders why he is still in that predicament. The chances of him delivering to Waverly what he had promised is probably nil at this rate and asking this stranger to help him steal it is worse than anything Napoleon had ever done before but he is desperate. He needs to complete the job or he will never get out of his thieving life.

“So what do you say?”

“I do not help strangers.”

“There’s always a first time for everything?” Napoleon says, almost wishes he could see the man’s face whose voice is doing real strange things inside his head.

“Why should I help you? Maybe what you want to steal is something I want as well.”

Napoleon’s eyes widen for a second. It never occurred to him that might be the case. But before he could say anything else, the inexplicable happened.

The Russian stranger turns Napoleon around so they are face to face in that darkened closet. Napoleon wants to ask what the hell is going on but then the next thing he knows, the man, the very tall Russian man, who has been exasperating him the entire few minutes, starts to lean in.

“Whoa, hold on for just one second, what do you think you’re doing?” Napoleon asks, alarmed at what he thinks the stranger is about to do, puts one hand on the man’s chest to stop him from coming any closer.

“You are very annoying man. And distracting.”

Napoleon tries to shove the man away but his quick hand pulls off Napoleon’s baseball cap and through the blur of the darkness, he is able to make out Napoleon’s dark hair, which is currently flattened against his forehead and his impossibly blue eyes.

“Give me that,” Napoleon exclaims after coming out of his little daze, grabs the cap back from the Russian’s hand before putting it haphazardly on his head.

“You don’t look like professional thief with this cap. Look like amateur.”

“Well maybe I am an amateur,” Napoleon shoots back in agitation, clearly frustrated. When he tries to move away, the Russian catches his wrist and pulls him back against him.

“Tell me why you want this painting,” he says in Napoleon’s ear when Napoleon tries to break free from his hold. He stops struggling for a moment.

“You don’t need to know why.”

Something strange is happening Napoleon thinks because he is being inexplicably drawn to this stranger and he does not even know why. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before and before he could process what was happening, the Russian starts to lean in again.

“Wait, what are you…”

“Shut up.”

Everything had happened so fast. The next thing Napoleon knows, the Russian is kissing him hard on the lips. Napoleon gasps in surprise, surprised to find his mouth unyielding at the Russian’s, even more surprised to find him rising up to meet him, the tip of his tongue touching his, and he tightens his own arms around the stranger, kisses him like he means it. What the hell is happening?

“Victoria Vinciguerra,” the Russian says breathlessly as he breaks the kiss and Napoleon jerks back, and his fuzzy mind starts to focus again, and then he hears it too, the footsteps outside the door, and almost knocks the Russian off his feet when he tries to get the closet door closed before someone comes through the bedroom door.

“Wait! My flashlight,” Napoleon exclaims, suddenly remember it lying just beside the foot of the bed. With two big strides, the Russian man makes a grab for it before scrambling back towards the closet and shoving Napoleon in, closing the closet just in time.

“You owe me for that,” he hisses at Napoleon, flashes the light on Napoleon's face briefly before turning it off.

 _Shit!_ Napoleon thinks as he tries to assess the entire situation. What the hell had gotten into him when he had let the Russian kissed him, and why the hell had he kissed him back? And now they are both stuck in the closet while Victoria Vinciguerra is out there in her room and he knows now they are both in trouble. There is a way out of this, Napoleon tries to tell himself. He takes in a few deep breaths, because air is clearly important, especially when it had been sucked out of his lungs just a few seconds ago by a complete stranger who is now leaning against the wall of the closet, bracing one hand against the closed closet door. He breathes in again and tries to calm himself.

Outside, both men could see the bedroom light being switched on and hears Victoria Vinciguerra rummaging through her dressing table drawers, and then alarmingly, through the gap in the closet’s panelled door, Napoleon could see her moving towards the closet. The Russian man shoves at him and Napoleon realises he is trying to get him to move into the other part of the closet, away from the first set of doors. Nodding, as if that little action could be seen by the taller man, Napoleon eases his way along the wall, finding his way amongst the hung clothes, with the Russian following his moves, ending in him getting squashed between the closet wall and the Russian’s back against his chest. Things could not get any worse, Napoleon cursed. When the closet door opens, Napoleon’s heart stops and he tries to stay as quiet as he possibly can, tries not to move a muscle. The clothes are being shoved aside towards where they are standing and he moves, tries to make as much room for the man in front of him while being undoubtedly squashed further at the same time. It must have been ages before Victoria finally stops searching through her clothes and shuts the closet door, and Napoleon lets out a shuddery breath of relief, as he leans his forehead against the tall Russian’s back. When he hears the bedroom door close outside, he mutters, “Fuck, we need to get out of this room now.”

“Look, Cowboy, about your earlier proposition,” the Russian starts when they are out of Victoria’s closet. “Maybe what you are looking for is not in this house.”

“Cowboy?” Napoleon asks, at once cutting him off, completely ignoring the fact that the Russian had just stated the painting might not even be in the mansion. “What the hell did you call me that for?”

“I do not know your name, and you are American.”

“And naturally, you associate all Americans as Cowboys. Genius.”

“Is what I have in mind.”

Napoleon cannot help the image that enters his mind at the stranger’s remark, the image of him in a cowboy hat, and he grins upon hearing him say that. He thinks the man could not surprise him anymore than he already had, especially when he had let him stuck his tongue into his mouth. And when he goes and breaks Napoleon’s flashlight by stomping it with his feet, kicks the broken gadget underneath the bed, Napoleon almost wants to laugh.

“Was that necessary?”

“You will not need that.”

“You’re unbelievable, do you know that? Normally people say that to me and I find it strange telling that to a complete stranger, whom I barely know, and who had kissed the fuck out of me in that damn closet.”

The Russian chuckles.

“You irritate me.”

“And you kiss every damn person that irritates you? I could be a killer for all you know, I could have pulled a knife on you when you’d tried that stunt.”

“But you did not.”

“I’m contemplating it now.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re very confident for a Rusky.”

“Do not call me that.”

The man does not sound pleased and Napoleon’s urge to challenge the man’s authority had doubled for the last few seconds.

“Oh, I can’t call you names but you can call me Cowboy? How about the Red Peril? Sounds better than a Rusky?”

“You should learn when to stop talking, Cowboy.”

“Are you going to make me?”

The Russian scoffs. Napoleon could see his silhouette as he stands by the window. From that split second, he could tell the man is blonde. If only he had pulled that flat cap off of him, he could have taken a better look at his face.

“This is getting ridiculous. Maybe we part ways now. You want to stay and search this place, then go ahead. But I do not think you will find painting.”

“Wait, so you know where the painting is? Or do you have it?”

Not saying anything, the Russian opens the window and starts to climb out into the narrow ledge outside of it. When Napoleon moves towards him, he gives out a stern warning. “Do not come after me.”

“And if I do?”

The man does not answer Napoleon’s question, merely says, “Good luck, Cowboy. And remember, if you tell anyone about this meeting, I will come and kill you.”

Then he disappears leaving Napoleon standing there in the middle of the room like a complete fool.

 

***

 

When Napoleon arrives at his apartment later that night, he goes straight to his liquor cabinet and pulls out a vodka bottle. He remembers a friend giving it to him a couple of months back, had never attempted to try and taste it because the one time he had, it had stung his tongue and he hated it but after his strange encounter with the mysterious Russian, Napoleon is going to need that strong vodka taste to knock him out, which is a complete irony.

Turning on some music, Napoleon then sinks down on his leather couch and tries not to think of that damn Russian and how he had been stupidly distracted and now he has to go and let Waverly know he had failed in finding the painting. He is going to need to be at his best when he sees Waverly tomorrow, needs to come up with a good excuse as to why he had failed when it seemingly had been an easy job. Maybe he could try again tomorrow night.

He is on his second glass of vodka when a knock on his front door startles Napoleon out of his thoughts. It is too late for anyone to be dropping by for a visit. Getting up, he strides towards the door, checks through the peephole and sighs when he sees the person standing in the hallway.

“Gaby, did Waverly ask you to come here to check on me?” he says before kissing the pretty brunette on her cheek.

“No, not really. I came here because I can’t believe you actually let him talk you into doing another job for him and is that vodka?” she suddenly asks looking at the bottle in his hand.

“Yep,” he answers with a wry smile. “Want to get drunk with me? There’s plenty more.”

She rolls her eyes before Napoleon lets her in and after they have settled on the sofa, Napoleon begins to tell her about his extremely strange night.

 

***

 

“Illya, couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”

Waverly had been woken up by a phone call at three thirty in the morning and the Russian had demanded he opened his front door, and now here they are in his living room with the Englishman still a little groggy from sleep.

“The painting you want, I’ve put it in your office at the art gallery as ordered.”

Waverly’s eyes widen and he immediately perks up, realising Illya’s reasons for being there. “You managed to get it? Splendid!”

“But you did not tell me you hired another person to do the same job. A thief. Why did you do this?”

Illya Kuryakin is Waverly’s art curator in one of his art galleries, a tall brooding Russian who has a great eye for art pieces and his steely determination in work had somehow managed to charm the Englishman. Taking him under his wing, Waverly is training Illya to be his successor, because being a rich bachelor with no real next of kin, Waverly somewhat sees Illya as a son he never had and when he had told Illya of his previous experience in dealing with stolen and forged art, Illya had told Waverly he would support him in whatever ways that he could. One of the ways Illya could help Waverly do that was to help him steal the fake Rembrandt from Al Vinciguerra and although Illya had been reluctant at first, he had finally agreed. But unknowing to him, Waverly had also engaged Napoleon’s services.

“Why ask a thief when you already asked me to do it?” Illya asks Waverly again. “You did not trust me to do this job?”

“No, no, Illya it’s not that at all! Look, I hired that man because of the importance of that painting and he’s the best art thief that has ever worked for me and when I’d asked him, at first he had been reluctant to help me. But eventually, he came back to me saying he would help. That was after you’d agreed to help me as well.”

“Then you should have said no to him,” Illya argues. “And he is not best art thief, because if he is then he would have got that painting for you.”

“Well I guess, you beat him to it,” Waverly says, almost proud of Illya’s achievement.

While the Englishman stands there before him with that wide smile on his face, Illya knows there are probably more that Waverly is hiding from him. But there is only one thing that had struck Illya’s curiosity the most. He decides to ask Waverly his burning question.

“What deal did you make with this thief?”

“Why? Did he say anything to you?” Waverly says, curious himself at Illya’s non stop prodding on Napoleon. Had he said anything to Illya that had made him a little anxious?

“Nothing much, he just says he needs to steal it for someone. But he seems a little desperate to find your painting. So I ask you again, what did you offer him?”

“I just told him he needn’t have to steal for me again if he finds me the painting.”

“And if he fails?” Illya asks.

“I said that I’d report his crime to the authorities.”

Illya frowns hearing the elder man’s reply. Somehow, he does not like the idea of the smug American thief getting into trouble for Waverly’s wrong doings.

“You will not do this.”

Waverly hums. Clearly Napoleon had left an impression with Illya, and wanting his good reputation to stay with the Russian, Waverly nods. “I won’t do it. I wouldn’t have even if you had not asked me. I’m fond of that thief, really, if you must know.”

Just as he is about to leave, Illya turns to Waverly and asks, “This thief. What is his name?”

“Do you really need to know this?”

“Yes. What is his name?” he repeats the question, and seeing the seriousness in Illya’s eyes, Waverly relents.

“His name is Napoleon Solo. The one I’ve told you about before.”

So his intuition had been right. The thief had indeed been Napoleon Solo and a small smile graces Illya’s lips. “Thank you for telling me this.”

“Illya,” Waverly calls him. “You will be in Birmingham tomorrow morning. I need you there because some new art pieces will be delivered to the gallery for the exhibition we’ll be having at the end of the week. You will help me oversee the preparations?”

“Yes,” Illya says, acknowledges Waverly one last time before disappearing into the night.

 

***

 

The next morning, Napoleon had braced himself for some kind of tongue lashing by Waverly for his failure to secure the fake Rembrandt, but after he had explained what had happened to the elderly man, all he had gotten in return was a smile. A fucking genuine smile, he cannot even see a hint of dishonesty on the Englishman’s face. Napoleon shakes his head in disbelief.

“You’re supposed to be more upset than this,” he says.

“Well, yes. I suppose I should be. But I’m not.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the painting now is in my hands.”

Napoleon is stumped to hear that. “What do you mean you have it? You asked me to steal the painting and now you say you have it?”

Waverly who is sitting behind his desk, looking pretty satisfied as he leans back against his chair, is completely baffling Napoleon. But what he says next floors him even further.

“That man you encountered in the mansion. I had also asked him to steal the painting for me and he’d managed to do that.”

“Son of a bitch,” Napoleon swears under his breath, unable to control himself. He feels like a complete fool. The Russian had known Napoleon was never going to find the painting because he already had it in his hands and yet he had duped him into kissing him even after knowing that fact. Fuck that man! Angry and embarrassed, Napoleon starts to demand some kind of explanation from the Englishman.

“Who is he? And why two men on the job? Why didn’t you tell me this? Fuck, this is just great, Alexander, I mean to think you’d trust me to do my job and yet you hired another thief? An amateur?”

“That amateur got me that painting.”

“Fuck,” Napoleon swears again. He lowers himself onto the chair opposite of Waverly’s desk, shakes his head again, thinking of the entire episode he would rather forget in an instant.

“Look, Solo. I’m sorry. I never meant it to be this complicated. I thought you weren’t going to do it so I’d asked Illya’s help. And when you said yes, I figured it won’t be too bad if I had two men helping me out. Two heads are definitely better than one.”

Napoleon scoffs. He thinks he had heard Waverly mentioning the Russian’s name but then he is too upset to be thinking about that man now. In the end, he just shakes his head again and gives Waverly a defeated smile.

“That’s just great. An amateur had beaten me to the painting. Does this Russian thief happen to still be in London?”

Understanding what might be in the American’s head, Waverly quickly dismisses him. “No, he’s long gone now.”

“But of course, only an amateur will cover his tracks after a job well done,” Napoleon sighs.

Not wanting to put Napoleon through his misery any longer, the Englishman gets up on his feet, circles his desk and then moves to sit beside the younger man. He pats Napoleon on his shoulder, and when Napoleon turns to face him he sees there is a genuine apologetic look on Waverly’s face.

“Even if you didn’t get me the painting, I’m still going to help you start afresh, Solo.”

Napoleon raises an eyebrow at Waverly’s statement. “What do you mean?”

“If you’re willing to take my offer, that is,” Waverly says and Napoleon folds his arms across his chest and nods. “Okay, I’m listening.”

After hearing out the English gentleman’s explanation and eventually accepting his offer, Napoleon finds himself having a cup of coffee at nine in the morning in a nice cafe nearby his new apartment in the city two weeks later with Gaby, Waverly’s trusted personal assistant.

“When I think about it again, I still can’t believe what you’d told me, Solo.”

Napoleon sips on his coffee and then gives Gaby a rueful smile. “It’s pathetic. Can you imagine all the worrying I’d done the night before meeting Waverly had been for nothing?”

“Yes, I can attest to that,” Gaby replies, remembering clearly in her head how Napoleon had gotten drunk with worry, she even had to help him to bed.

No matter how infuriating Napoleon could be sometimes, she completely adores the man. She had gotten acquainted with the American when he first started to work for Waverly and throughout the years, Gaby had somewhat become Napoleon’s confidante. And when he had told her Waverly had engaged his help on securing the fake Rembrandt, Gaby had been a little angry, knowing Napoleon had left his thieving days.

“So that Russian man you’d kissed. Any progress on finding out who he is?”

The mere mention of that makes Napoleon’s body stiffens. He hates thinking about what he had done, what he had let the total stranger made him do, and to think he has no idea how the man looks like really strikes a nerve in him.

“Besides knowing that his first name is Illya? No, nothing at all. But let’s not talk about him, shall we?”

“But I’m curious,” Gaby whines.

“No, Gaby. Forget about it.”

Gaby’s grin is wide enough for a ship to sail through it and Napoleon only scoffs at her in return when she keeps giving him a pleading look. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You had kissed a damn stranger! A man! And you don’t even know who he is, how he really looks like and you merely let him? You’re crazy! If it was me, I’d…”

“What would you do?” Napoleon immediately asks before Gaby could finish her sentence. “What would you’ve done if you’re in my situation.”

“I’d do what a normal person would do! I’d probably slap him, or kick him or do whatever it is but not kiss him back! That’s just absurd!”

“Yes, I guess I should’ve done what any normal person would’ve done but unfortunately, I didn’t. And I don’t know why I’d done it until this day,” Napoleon admits, as he bites on his muffin. “And like I said, we should not talk about this anymore.”

“Anyway, I just hope he is charming as you make him out to be.”

“What? When have I ever said that?” Napoleon asks in surprise.

“Well, you did say he was tall, had a deep rumbly voice, speaks with an accent. I am guessing he must be charming, probably good looking as well.”

“You’re imagining him in your head, Gaby.”

“Well, don’t you?”

Truth be told, Napoleon thinks about that damn Russian stranger every day. Whenever he thinks about that night, and how absurd he had acted, Napoleon just cringes. The tall man, with that stupid flat cap and a hint of blonde hair which Napoleon had managed to see in the darkness of the room, had managed to seduce him into kissing him? Fuck, what kind of cruel joke had that been? What had propelled the giant man to act the way he had? Until today, it seems to be the biggest mystery to ever befallen Napoleon’s life.

“Hey, are you with me?”

Apparently lost in his own thoughts, Napoleon had forgotten Gaby and her frantic waving hand in front of his face.

“Sorry, I was just thinking of something.”

“You’re thinking of the Russian, right?” Gaby sniggers and Napoleon just rubs his jaw. “Yeah, the mystery Russian man. Don’t even know his last name. Every time I bug Waverly about him, he just changes the subject. Says there is nothing at all that he needs to tell me about him.”

“I’d tried to check with the staff in his London gallery, unfortunately, no one knows of any Russian working for Waverly. But if I ever encounter any in the vicinity of this area, I’ll let you know,” Gaby says, hoping she would actually be able to help Napoleon find his mystery man.

They continue drinking coffee and munching on muffins after that before Gaby breaks the silence again.

“So, have you managed to settle into your new place okay?”

“Yeah, just a few other boxes that I need to take in later. Other than that I’m good,” Napoleon says.

“That’s good to know.”

After a few minutes studying her friend’s face, Gaby leans forward across the table and grabs Napoleon’s hand in hers. “Do not make the same mistakes again, Solo. Promise me.”

“What do you mean?”

“With Waverly.”

Understanding where Gaby is going with the conversation, Napoleon nods.

“I won’t. Although I must tell you Waverly had asked me to run this antique restoration place he’s going to set up near Camden.”

“And you’re going to do it? You’re still going to be tied to him somehow, Solo, if you take his offer,” Gaby says like a warning.

“You’re worried, Teller?” Napoleon asks. It warms his heart that anyone would actually care for an art thief like him. “Gaby?”

“Well, yes. Because you’re my friend. Whatever it is, Solo, just be careful if he ever asks you to do anything again. You just need to stop.”

“What can I say, once a thief, always gonna be a thief,” Napoleon says with a shrug but that only earns him a stern frown from Gaby.

“Solo, I’m serious. You’re the one that’d said that you wanted to quit, so keep to your damn words.”

“Okay, okay, I will,” Napoleon smiles and eventually gives Gaby an assuring hug.

Later, after almost an hour of casual chatting and coffee drinking, Gaby says her goodbyes and Napoleon soon makes his way towards his new place which is on the fourth floor in one of the apartments situated in the heart of London’s Chancery Lane business district. The place is fairly new and the access to the tube station is pretty easy, and Napoleon could not be more pleased. Waverly had made good of his promise, had helped him in many ways that he probably should. Although it does make Napoleon wonder, he was not going to say no to Waverly’s very good offer. He just hopes there aren’t anymore hidden agendas on the Englishman’s part

 

***

 

The are three apartments on each floor of his new apartment building, and the times Napoleon had been there to move in some of his belongings, he had never once bumped into any of his neighbours. He figures since the building is a new one, perhaps the apartments from across his is empty as well.

After managing to carry in the last few boxes of his stuff, and arranging whatever that needs to be arranged, Napoleon thinks he will just chill for the rest of the afternoon. But before that, he decides to run to a convenient store which is just a couple of blocks away from his building so he could get a few necessities for his rather empty kitchen. After putting on his jacket and locking his door, Napoleon starts for the staircase when a very tall man suddenly appears from the opposite apartment, busy locking his door as well, fumbling with the keys in his hand.

At the sight of him, the first thing that comes up to Napoleon’s head is _‘hey, I do have a neighbour.’_

“Hey there, I’m your new neighbour, just moved in a couple of days ago.”

The man, upon hearing Napoleon’s voice, turns, and starts to eye him with a strange look. Napoleon is uncertain why, but he too starts to get a strange vibe just by looking at the man in front of him. Despite that, he is already stretching out his hand for a handshake and the man grabs hold of it in kind. His grip is firm and then he just stares at Napoleon for a couple of seconds before nodding and starts to make it for the stairs without acknowledging Napoleon any further.

“Well that’s rude and weird,” Napoleon thinks as he shakes his head.

His neighbour is a good few inches taller than him, just like his mystery Russian had been. And he is blonde as well. And why does that knowledge irk him? When have all the men suddenly become taller than him and blonde? What’s with all the tall men in the city? And then he thinks, and he thinks, and suddenly a thought enters his mind.

“But it couldn't be, could it? Nah, it’s impossible.”

The longer he stands there, the more he is unable to shake the idea off his head that his neighbour, who had not spoken a word, and who had only given him a strange look when he had greeted him, could actually be his strange Russian encounter from two weeks back at the Vinciguerra mansion.

Still standing in the hallway of the apartments, Napoleon then fishes out his cellphone from his pocket and starts to call Gaby.

“Solo, what is it?” she says. “I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Look, Gaby, I know this is going to sound really strange, but my neighbour is a very tall blonde man.”

Napoleon could hear Gaby’s laughter skitter across the line. “And what are you suggesting, Solo?”

“I’ve a feeling he’s my Russian friend.”

“Why? Just because he’s tall?” Gaby argues.

“No. He gave me this strange look and he didn’t say a word, didn’t even say _‘hi, nice to meet you’_ or anything at all. He just nods and then he leaves.”

“Maybe your neighbour’s not the friendly type. That’s what it is, Solo. He’s unfriendly.”

Napoleon is sitting in the hallway now, leans against the wall as he sits on the carpeted floor cross-legged. He presses the phone harder against his ear. When Gaby does not say anything else, he groans into the phone. “Damn it, I think I’m going insane, Gaby.”

“Solo, you need to forget him, okay? Get a grip! Maybe he’s left the country. Maybe he’s drinking vodka in some Moscow bar or canoodling some Russian man or woman right about now.”

“You’re very funny, Teller,” Napoleon rolls his eyes as if Gaby could see him right at that very moment. Then, he rubs his face with his hand and sighs. “Okay, maybe you’re right. Maybe he’s not my Russian stranger after all.”

“Maybe he’s not,” Gaby says at the other end.

Sighing again, Napoleon leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. “Thanks for the little chat, Gaby.”

He ends the conversation and when he opens his eyes a few minutes later, he gets the shock of his life. His neighbour, the very tall man whom he had just met a couple of minutes ago, is now standing not a few feet away from him by the floor’s elevator.

“Fuck, you scared the shit out of me,” Napoleon swears as he quickly gets to his feet. “What are you doing here?”

“You are Napoleon Solo,” the man starts and Napoleon, upon hearing his name being uttered with that accent, knows immediately right there and then, he is the Russian man he had been looking for.

“Oh shit, you’re him, aren’t you. You are, you. The Russian thief. From the Vinciguerra mansion? Please tell me I’m not wrong?”

“I’m Illya. Kuryakin. And no, you’re not wrong. I am your Russian thief.”

Napoleon could not say a word after that. He feels like calling Gaby again, wants to tell her she’s wrong and he had been right and that he had found the man and that man is now right in front of him, looking the absolute person Napoleon had imagined him to be.

“I thought you’d left earlier,” Napoleon says, more like squeaked, unable to recognise his own trembling voice. His hands are visibly shaking.

“I did leave, but then I stopped just at the landing below. Had to come back.”

“Did you hear my phone conversation?” Napoleon asks.

“Yes, every word.”

“Damn,” Napoleon mutters, runs his fingers through his hair. He feels his cheeks flushed in embarrassment thinking how desperate he had sounded but what Illya says next makes Napoleon feel a little better.

“I tried to look for you but Waverly wouldn’t let me.”

So he had been trying to find out about him as well. Napoleon smiles.

“Why did you leave after I’d introduced myself?” he then asks and what Illya says made his heart skip a beat.

“I was afraid to be wrong. Get my hopes up for no reason is not good,” Illya admits and Napoleon thinks he must be dreaming hearing Illya saying those things. But why is he feeling all weird and tingly inside? What’s the Russian doing to him?

“I’d asked Waverly about you too, but he wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“I work for Waverly as art curator in his gallery in Birmingham. I moved here a week ago when he wants me to help at an antique restoration place he wants to set up.”

“Fuck,” Napoleon curses lowly to himself.

Waverly had offered him the same thing as well. Does this mean he will be working alongside his neighbour? And he will be seeing him every other day, every other night? The idea soon starts to mess with Napoleon’s head and after a few moments of awkward silence, Napoleon looks up from his feet where his eyes had been glued at for the past couple of seconds. He sees the Russian, he sees Illya eyeing him intently with his impossibly blue eyes and ridiculously long eyelashes. A nervous tremor starts to run up and down Napoleon’s spine.

“You want to say something, Peril?”

“Peril?” Illya asks, his eyebrows furrowed together at the name Napoleon had called him and the American cannot fight the laughter that follows.

“Remember I’d called you Rusky and you weren’t too happy about that. Then I said I’d called you Peril instead.”

Illya chuckles. “Yes, I remember this, Cowboy.”

And then suddenly Napoleon cannot stop himself from asking Illya the one question that had been haunting him day and night ever since his encounter with him that fateful night.

“So, I’m just going to cut straight to the chase, Peril. Why did you kiss me that night?”

“Like I said, because you irritate me.”

Illya’s unhesitant answer just baffles the American further. “That’s it? But that’s impossible. You can’t do that and just get away with it? So, do you always do that? Do you kiss anyone that irritates you?”

“No, not anyone,” Illya answers.

Suddenly, without giving any warning, Illya starts closing the small distance between them and Napoleon at once is reminded of their strange kiss that night in Victoria Vinciguerra’s closet. Mimicking his actions from that night, Napoleon puts a hand on Illya’s chest to stop him from coming any closer.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t just come on to me whenever you want.”

He gives the Russian his meanest stare, notices his icy blue eyes and for a moment Napoleon’s brain just freezes.

“You’ve always intrigued me, Napoleon Solo.”

“What do you mean? You don’t even know me.”

“I’ve heard stories about you, the best art thief who is so skilful, he is impossible to catch. I always thought you’re a myth, but you are not. And you are even more beautiful than how I imagined you to be.”

Illya’s eyes are bright on him and Napoleon is simply entranced. He is not quite certain what is happening, but Illya’s voice and his closeness are doing strange things to his insides and his heart rate starts to speed up. Damn, and this is only his second encounter with the man. How is he ever going to survive around this tall Russian adonis without getting a heart attack of sorts?

“You read up about me?” Napoleon asks after a brief respite.

“There are stories about you that I hear and I’ve always wondered about this American thief that Waverly talks about but he tells me nothing useful so I only used my head to imagine how you are.”

“But that night, you didn’t know that was even me.”

“No, I did not. But I imagined how it would be like to have Napoleon Solo in my clutches, to have the best thief at work in my hands, so I took my chances.”

The idea of being in Illya’s clutches just gets Napoleon all hot and bothered. He prays Illya does not notice it although he has a funny feeling nothing escapes the Russian’s eyes.

“So, you were just imagining me in your head that night? For all you know I could have been the complete opposite of what you’re thinking.”

“But I’m not wrong, Cowboy. I’m always right.”

“Huh, that’s indeed fascinating.”

Illya’s hands are now bracketing his shoulders, effectively trapping Napoleon against the wall and it makes him wonder how he had ended up once again in this predicament.

“So, I do not think it’s appropriate for us to be having this conversation here in the hallway,” Napoleon murmurs. Hearing that, Illya cocks an eyebrow. “What do you have in mind, Cowboy?”

“I’d invite you to my place, but I’d just moved in and the apartment, it’s still a mess you know, boxes lying everywhere, nothing in the kitchen for drinks or food. If you want, maybe we could…”

But Illya does not let Napoleon finish. He simply silences him with a hard kiss, hard enough to bruise, and once again Napoleon’s brain has melted, shuts down in an instant just as it had been that night.

“How could this be? I don’t even know you. Why is this happening?” he moans when Illya breaks the kiss.

“You have sinful mouth. Ever since that night, I cannot stop thinking about _this_.”

Illya rubs one thumb slowly on Napoleon’s parted lips, the act so suggestive, Napoleon thinks he’s never been more aroused in his life than at that moment. His heart is pounding so hard against his chest, he is absolutely certain Illya could hear it.

“I’m starting to question my sanity over here,” Napoleon gasps just before Illya kisses him again and pulls him into his apartment.

Once the door is closed behind them, Illya slams Napoleon against the door, resumes kissing him senseless. And Napoleon, not wanting to be the one merely receiving, responds in kind, ferociously kisses Illya until the Russian is gasping for breath. He groans once they take a breather for air.

“Damn it, what is it with you, Illya?” he murmurs before Illya’s hand somehow manages to sneak in between their bodies to grope Napoleon firmly where it mattered the most.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Napoleon curses at the contact, growls against Illya’s lips. “Wait, Illya, truthfully, I’ve never really done this before with a man.”

“Neither have I,” Illya murmurs and when he cups Napoleon that little bit harder, the American moans, his head thuds back against the door and swears again. “Fuck, Illya. I want…”

Before Napoleon could say what is on his mind, Illya is already two or three steps ahead of him, knows exactly what it is that Napoleon wants. He drags him across his living room, straight towards his bed, hands and lips never leaving each other’s and when Napoleon’s legs hit the edge of his bed, Illya shoves him down onto the mattress. Quickly climbing on top of him, he leans down, kisses Napoleon again with his hands roaming all over Napoleon’s body.

“I don’t believe you’ve never done this before,” Napoleon moans when Illya sucks a little too hard on his sensitive neck. Illya does not answer, merely sucks harder, then kisses the little red mark he’d made on Napoleon’s skin.

Clothes and pants are soon being tossed aside carelessly and when Illya positions himself between Napoleon’s obscenely spread thighs, the American gives Illya one of his more dazzling smiles. “Can’t believe I’m doing this. We hardly know each other. Are you sure about this because…”

His words and smile vanish immediately from his mouth when Illya’s lips descend on his inner thigh, and Napoleon could only lean back against the pillows and take whatever it is that Illya gives him. And when that talented tongue moves much lower still, until it reaches the furled muscle of Napoleon’s opening, coupled with one finger teasing it as well, Napoleon could only curse and surrender wholeheartedly to the Russian.

 

***

 

They’re lying together, curled up on Illya’s sweat stained sheets, bodies tired and sated when Illya slowly leans up with one elbow to look at his American conquest beside him. Running his fingers through Napoleon’s damp sweaty hair, he murmurs in his ear.

“Hey, Cowboy, you okay?”

Napoleon is staring at Illya’s ceiling. “I think so.”

“It was good?”

“Yes, it was.”

“I want to do it again with you.”

Napoleon turns to look at Illya. “I don’t really know you, Peril. You’re a stranger, you might even be dangerous. And you’re…”

“What?”

“You’re fucking gorgeous and I think I’m going crazy. I think we are both crazy.”

Napoleon sighs, looks at the ceiling again but suddenly Illya is on top of him, his face hovering above Napoleon’s with his hands cupping his face and when Illya kisses Napoleon again, all the arguments and uncertainty in Napoleon’s head simply vanish.

The next time Napoleon wakes up, his phone is beeping loudly on the bedside table. He groans as he reaches for it and his eyes immediately widen when he sees the person’s name flashing on the screen.

“Yes?” he answers it. Beside him, Illya is awake as well, eyes looking curiously at Napoleon’s somewhat unreadable expression.

“Yes, I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Who is that?” Illya asks after he had ended the call.

Napoleon cracks him a nervous grin. “It’s Waverly. He wants to see us.”

 

***

 

“I can’t believe Waverly had set us up for this. There never was an antique restoration place for us. Just this.”

A month later, Illya and Napoleon find themselves somewhere in Nevada, currently on Route 50 based on the coordinates found on the back of the fake Rembrandt Waverly had Illya steal. And just a few meters ahead is a small chapel, the place where Waverly had told them, that if they were to trust him, they would find something in there that would change their lives forever.

“I can never understand Waverly’s reasons for doing this. Whatever it is that we find in there, he could have kept it for himself.”

Illya only hums.

“What if there’s nothing in there? What if he’d lied to us again?” Napoleon says.

“I doubt it. Gaby says he wants to redeem himself,” Illya assures Napoleon. “To pay for the crimes he had done. He did not want to implicate us in his dealings anymore. He wants us to start new.”

Napoleon shrugs. “He’s not that bad, Waverly. I do like him. All he ever did was dabbled in art forgery and fakes. And of course, thievery, which I am responsible for a lot of it.”

Illya drums his fingers on the car’s steering wheel. “He is fond of you, Cowboy. He tells me this.”

“He tells me the same thing about you. Maybe if we hadn’t met that night, this would not have happened?” Napoleon says as he gives Illya a side glance.

“Maybe,” Illya replies. “Maybe not. Do not think about it too much.”

“Hmm, I hate the control you have over me,” Napoleon grumbles and Illya just laughs. “I love it.”

Realising he could never win any arguments with Illya, Napoleon then gestures his head at the chapel. “You stay here while I go check it out?”

Illya nods. But just before he gets out of the car, Napoleon turns to the Russian and smiles. “You trust me to go in there and come back out without running away with whatever it is that I find? It probably is a stash of cash just waiting for someone to take them away. You trust me, Peril?”

“Even if you run away, I will eventually find you, Cowboy,” Illya answers with a hint of annoyance. “It’s not very difficult to find you. I did it once.”

“Excuse me, you didn’t. It was all Waverly. He had planned everything. It was all him and we both got played in his game.”

Illya crooks a grin, pulls Napoleon by the collar of his shirt and kisses him. After briefly letting their tongues tangle together, Illya lets Napoleon go and murmurs against his lips. “You’re impossible, Cowboy.”

Napoleon laughs. “Is that bad or good?”

“Cannot decide now. But so far, it has been good,” Illya says before kissing him again and then mutters in his ear. “And I do trust you.”

“Hmm, okay. And I hope it gets better. So, shall I go inside and find out? Won’t take me too long.”

“All right but be careful,” Illya replies, watches Napoleon disappear into the chapel. But when Napoleon does not appear after five minutes, Illya starts to get anxious. He is about to check on him when he sees Napoleon rushing out of the chapel, running hurriedly towards the car. At that, Illya quickly starts the engine and once Napoleon is safely inside the passenger seat, he drives off without asking any questions.

“What happened?” he says after letting Napoleon catch his breath. Illya had seen a man shouting angrily at their car through their rearview mirror just before they had sped off. “Solo? What’s that all about?”

He sees Napoleon is holding a wooden box in his hands.

“He’s just mad I broke one of the chapel’s benches and that I took this.”

“What’s inside?”

Napoleon unlocks the box using the key Waverly had given them and what’s inside just makes Napoleon smile. He leans towards Illya to give him a peck on his cheek and says, “Illya? Maybe we can go take that vacation in Rome like we wanted after all.”

Illya cocks one eyebrow at Napoleon and then laughs. Kissing this damn gorgeous thief in that closet all those nights ago had indeed been his best mistake after all.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) This is my second AU story of the boys. So maybe the characterization is a little off than the ones in the movie. I tried my best not to let it stray too much. Lethalin wanted an AU where Napoleon's a businessman (but really is still a thief) and Illya is his new neighbour who moves across his apartment that Napoleon is torn between avoiding/annoying. The story I intended to write at first was different, but in the end, this story happened, I just hope you'll like it. :) and mistakes are all mine. 
> 
> 2) The ending is a little ambiguous, the story still has some questions unanswered, like Waverly's past, who really gave him the painting and how he'd found out about what was written on the back of it etc...what happens to the boys after that and also Gaby, so I might write a follow up to this story if my muse is kind to me.
> 
> 3) The fic title is borrowed from Snow Patrol's 'Chasing Cars'. I wrote this story with this song in mind somehow, especially the last half of the story.
> 
> Note : The last bit of the story is similar/sort of borrowed from one movie which at the time this end note is being written, I cannot remember the title of the movie. If anyone does know, perhaps you can share it so I can update my fic notes to credit it?
> 
> Edit: the ending is sort of similar/borrowed from the movie The Rock, starring Nic Cage and Sean Connery. Thanks to the reader who had commented on the fic and giving me that goddamn movie title!


End file.
